


Life In the Ashes

by fire1



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire1/pseuds/fire1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Katniss goes back to District 12 in MockingJay She thinks she will only find death, However she also finds a life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life In the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one shot for now, if anyone want you use the idea feel free just please note that when you post it. thank you.

Chapter one: life in the ashes

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen yours old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capital hates me. Peeta was taken prisoner. He is thought to be dead. Most likely he is dead it is probably best if he is… 

“Katniss. Should I come down?” My best friend Gale’s voice reaches me thought the headset the rebels insisted I wear. He’s up in a hovercraft; watching me carefully, ready to swoop in if anything goes amiss. 

“No need, I'm fine,” I call back through that headset, and slowly move away from the ashes that used to be my childhood home in the Seam. Showing both the district 13 officials and Gale that I am fine. 

The doctors had finally stared weaning me off the medications for the concussion Joanna gave me in the arena and my breakdowns. The medications make me feel off, dimming my emotions making me think slower and some time making me see things. I couldn't risk them thinking it was too soon to lower my meds. I was confused enough without its numbing side effects and making me hallucinate. “Emotional trauma,” one of the doctors said. That is the case of my muddled, confusion mind and ‘breakdowns’ making me need the meds. In the end it means I am ‘mentally unstable’. 

I take a deep breath turn away form were my old home stood, choking on the ash in the air around me. However I'm not sure it's the ash itself that makes me choke or the thought this ash could be a person. The ash in the air is no longer just coal dust from the mines but also from the destruction of the district’s homes, shops, and the people of 12. Their deaths fall on my shoulders entirely…. If only I had not shot the arrow into the arena’s force field, then maybe the ashes of the dead I choke on now would still be living people. Oppressed, yes, but alive. 

I stick to the road out of habit, but it’s a bad choice, because it’s full of the remains of those who tried to flee. Some were incinerated entirely. But others, probably overcome with smoke, escaped the worst of flames and now lie reeking in various states of decomposition, carrion for scavengers, blanketed by flies. I killed you, I think as I pass a pile, and you and you. The realization nearly makes me double over. Yes, I killed all these people with my impulsive act in the arena.

District 12 is still burning, like me, ‘the girl on fire’, I think as I look up at the fires at the coalmines, the black smoke almost blacking out the sun. But there is no one left to care. Most of the District’s population is dead. The small numbers of survivors, my family and Gale’s among them, have Gale to thank for their lives. We had no resistance movement here in 12, as soon as I was lifted from the arena the electricity in 12 was cut. And within only fifteen minutes the sky was filled with hoverplanes releasing bombs. 

It was Gale who thought to herd those he could to the Meadow, the only place in 12 not filled with old wood and coal dust. He organized the survivors to pull down the fence, now harmless without electricity, and led the people to the only place he could think that might be safe: my father’s lake. He then fought to keep people fed for 3 days before the hovercrafts from 13 showed up and evacuated everyone. Gale is a true hero in the hearts of the District 12 survivors, thought he do’s not like to think of himself that why. 

District 13 gladly took in the survivors from 12. Giving us food, shelter, jobs and educating the young children. District 13 has been living underground in secret since the end of the dark days. Under the ruined city the capital shows the other districts on reaping day. Unfortunately their population has been slowly declining, so their kindness could be interpreted as them needing more people for the district. A suspicion I have that is apparently shared with another refugee form 10, Dalton, who told me one night “they need you. Me. They need us all. New breeding stock because of a pox epidemic leaving most of them unable to have kids,” he whispered to me as I crept though the hall of 13 looking for a good place to hid. 

The surface beneath my feet hardens from the dirt roads leading out of the Seam to the paving stones of the square. There was nothing left—the Justice building, the merchant businesses and homes even the Mayor's mansion's, gone. Besides the meadow the only thing left in 12 was Victor's village. They probably only spared it to show the other districts that there was no ways to eradicate the Capital’s hold on them. Or perhaps it was simply so that if someone from the Capital ever had to stay in 12 they had someone nice. Who knows what they were thinking. 

I look over at what remains of Peeta family’s bakery, only ash and a melted metal slab, part of the ovens I assume. None of Peeta’s family made it out. His mother, father, two older brothers, his sister-in-law, and his 3-year-old nephew all wiped out of existence because of the Capital, because of my arrow, because of me. Peeta truly would have no one except for me to come home to now. I’m staring to think I could be losing my mind.   
Not that he is going to be coming home. Because I failed in saving him, the Capital has most likely killed him.

I turn and run from the sight of the ash that was Peeta’s bakery to the only place that still stands in 12, Victor's Village. I bolt into the house that was mine, slamming the door. It looks as if my family is still live here; nothing has changed. It’s clean and quiet, nothing out of place. 

“What am I going to do?” I whisper into the quiet. The rebel leaders, Plutharch Heavensbee, and the authorities in District 13 all keep telling me that I must become the embodiment of the rebellion, it’s Mockingjay. It’s why they went to all the trouble of getting me out of the arena alive. It seems my past actions have not been enough, defying the Capital in the Games, being a rallying point of the people of the Districts. Now I most be the leader of the rebellion. No, that's not right, just the face of it: the rebel’s puppet. 

The only person who says nothing to me is the president of 13, Alma Coin. She’s in her fifties, I think, gray hair straight as a sheet to her shoulders and grey eyes. But not like the people from the Seam. No, her eyes are pale as if the color has left them altogether. There’s something in her eyes I just don’t trust. However I try not to think about it. 

I move silently through the downstairs, not wanting to make a sound. I pick up remembrances as I go, adding them to my hunting bag. My parents wedding day photo, a blue hair ribbon for Prim. I let out a relived sigh when I grab my family’s medicinal and edible plant book. 

What am I going to do? I ask myself again as I head up the stairs. Become the Mockingjay…? Would that help anyone? It seems every time I do anything people end up getting hurt or killed. 

I stop half way up the stairs at the sound of a hiss in the kitchen doorway: ears flattened, glaring at me, is the ugliest cat in the world. “Buttercup,” I say, moving back down the stairs. Somehow he has survived, and he looks well-fed too. I don’t want to think about what he has been eating. He must be getting in and out through the window we always keep ajar for him. 

I get down low to the floor and put my hand out to him, but he only hisses at it. “Come here boy.” He hisses and swipes at me with his paw. Buttercup and I have never gotten along, and he is likely mad about being left behind. “Do you want to see Prim?” That did it. His ears perk up and he lets out a meow and approaches me. I grab him, putting him into my game bag that has the photo, ribbon and book already in it. There no other why to get him on the hovercraft, and getting him back to Prim will make her happy. He means the world to her. 

“We need to go,” Gale’s voice says over the headset. But before I can go there is still one more thing I need in this house. I sling the strap of the bag over my shoulder and run up to my bedroom. I had moved my father’s hunting jacket here from the old house before I left for the Quell, hoping it would be a comfort to Mom and Prim when I was dead. Good thing too or we would have lost it along with the old house. 

As I pick up the jacket, feeling its worn leather between my fingers and its familiar smell of the woods, a calm seeps into me, like my father is here in the room. I take in what feels like the first real breath in a long time and just like that the calm leaves me. In its place an uncomfortable tingling sensation runs down my spine, my palms begin to sweat and a strange feeling creeps up the back of my neck. That’s when I smell it. The strange artificial smell of President Snow’s white rose. I look around my room and there it is, preserved perfectly like it was just picked, in a vase of dried flowers on my dresser. 

I know he sent it. President Snow. How long has it been here? A day? An hour? No, the rebels swept the village before letting me come to 12. No, this was a message for me, that only I would know the meaning of. That we have unfinished biasness. That he will kill me and everyone I love. I run from the room, downstairs and out of the house, my father’s jacket under my arm and my hunting bag still slung onto one of my shoulders with a hissing protesting Buttercup inside.

I gulp down the fresh air outside, purging myself of the smell of the rose. I look around myself, and my eyes lock on Peeta’s house. Part of me wonders if I should run in and just grab something of his so that the world does not forget him, and the more selfish part of me adds so that I have a part of him to keep with me. His sketchbooks, his apron, just something of his that’s just Peeta, that does not have the Capital’s taint on it. Something of his that will remind me of the hope he once gave me, something of the boy with the bread. 

Slowly I make my way over to his house, Gale protesting in my ear that going to Peeta’s is a bad idea, and how we really do need to leave. I ignore him, and climb the steps leading to Peeta’s front door. The need to have a piece of Peeta to hold on to nags at me.

I hear a clattering sound from inside and freeze in place. Could there be a trap inside, one of President Snow’s soldiers lying in wait for me? No, the rebels swept the village. It’s most likely an animal that got in somehow. Or maybe a survivor. My heart leaps at the thought, only to sink again. The rebels swept the village. They found no one, I remind myself bitterly. 

I grab the door handle and turn it, surprised that the door opened at all. Part of me thought I wouldn't be able get in, since Peeta always keeps his door locked. A wave of pain threatens to immobilize me, Peeta's house reminding me again how hugely I failed him. A big part of me wants to run back to the hovercraft, back to Gale and 13, find a place to hide out in until I can handle the pain shooting through me. I don’t let myself give in to the impulse. 

The house smells of decaying meat and I gag on the smell if it, fear’s clammy hands gripping onto me. Could President Snow have ordered Peeta killed and his body delivered here for me to find, like the rose in my room? Yet another way to utterly destroy me. I can't seem to catch my breath. I pull my father’s jacket over my mouth and nose and am running before I even realized it.

“No, no please,” I moan as I run through the entranceway. Please, please, don’t be Peeta. Gale’s voice over the headset tells me hold on, he coming, and to not go in.

“Damn it Katniss, can’t you listen for once in your life!” Gale’s voice buzzes angrily in my ear.

In the kitchen, half hanging off a kitchen chair, is the body, a curly mop of blonde hair sweeps over the gray face, broad shoulders stiffened in death, long legs extended underneath the kitchen table. Empty cans of preserved food litter the floor around his feet. One of his arms is around his abdomen, the other extended onto the kitchen table with his hand laid on top of an open page of a sketchbook. Three other sketchbooks lay opened around the table.

My heart stops. “Peeta!” I cry out, my voice hoarse. I falteringly move the curly blonde hair away from his face. Relief floods my veins: the features of the man's face are not Peeta’s. As I look at the body closer I realized I should have known right away it wasn't him. The man’s body has severe burns in different places on his arms, neck, and face. Tears of sorrow and joy run freely down my face.   
It’s not Peeta, but his oldest brother, Barley. I close his unseeing, damned blue eyes. I can't help wondering what happened to the rest of his family, Barley’s wife and their 3-year-old son Rye. 

I had only met Barley, his wife, and their son a handful of times, most of which were after Peeta and I came home from the Victory Tour but before the announcement of the Quarter Quell. They had congratulated us on our engagement. We didn't feel comfortable telling Peeta’s brother and sister-in-law the engagement was to keep the Capital happy, not with their young son Rye with them. Rye, who innocently hugged me, telling me how much he was going to love his new Aunty Kat. ‘Kat’ because he had trouble articulating my name. When I met him I was reminded of Prim at that age.

Gently I pull the sketchbook from under Barley’s stiff hand. It must be an older sketchbook of Peeta’s. The page he was looking at was a sketch in charcoal of Mr. Mellark pulling a tray of bread out of the bakery oven, Peeta’s two older brothers working with ingredients, smiling, maybe joking with one another. The paper was old and yellowing, the sketchbook itself barely holding the pages in. 

“I'm so sorry Barley…” I choke out through the grief of seeing the sketch; it had been Peeta’s hands that created it. I close the sketchbook and grab the other three, carefully stuffing all four of them into my hunting bag, while keeping Buttercup, who is hissing and scratching at my hand, from escaping. The pain from his scratches a good thing: it keeps me anchored to the here and now. 

Gale’s voice over the headset is assuring me he and two other soldiers are almost to me.

“I'm fine,” I choke out. “It was just seeing Barley's body.” I don't want to explain to Gale that I thought at first it was Peeta and how that thought threatened to destroy me. My relationship with Gale, is even more complicated then before the Quarter Quell, but he knows not to push me for more than friendship right now and for that I'm grateful.

“We're already half way too your location, Catnip.” Gale’s voice sounds tired, wary and hesitant in my ear. 

“Okay.” I don't want Gale and the soldiers from 13 in Peeta’s house. It feels wrong somehow. I secure the strap of my hunting bag on my shoulder and lay my father's jacket over it. I put three fingers of my left hand to my lips and lift them into the air, in a silent salute and goodbye to Peeta's oldest brother.

As I slowly lower my hand, movement to my left catches my attention and my muscles tense, preparing for a fight. I remember the clattering sound I heard before rushing into the house. The pantry door swings open a tiny bit and I slowly moved backwards, not taking my eye off the pantry door. 

A small child’s hand with a healing burn on it grips the pantry doorframe for support. My heart take off like the wings of a humming bird. Rye, Barley's son, Peeta’s 3 year-old nephew, emerges around the door, his curly blonde hair oily and covered in black ash, his clothes dirty and hanging off of him, tear streaks down his dirty face. He looks like he has not eaten in days. He is moving so slowly it looks as if he is struggling to even stand. How did the rebels miss him when they did the security sweep of the village before letting me come down here? 

“Rye,” I call out, and his eyes move to meet mine. They are almost as blue as Peeta’s, but they have a haunted look in them, a look no child his age should have.   
Quickly and carefully, I maneuver around the empty cans of food, as he lets go of the pantry doorframe and stumbles his way too me, he wobbles and start to fall. But I am there before he hits the floor, wrapping him in my arms. He reaches up and wraps his too-skinny arms around my neck. His grip feels weak but I can tell he’s holding on to me as strongly as he can.

“Kat… Aunty Kat…” he sobs into my shoulder. He keeps whispering my name, or at least his name for me, and shaking. I sit us down on the floor of the kitchen and grab my father’s hunting jacket from where it was resting on top of the hunting bag still hanging off my shoulder. Rye never letting go of his hold around neck. I wrap him in the jacket and rub small circles into his back to help him feel more secure. 

“I’m here Rye, you’re safe now, I won’t leave you, I promise,” I tell him. And then I sing. I have not sung to anyone since Rue. I sing the Valley Song to Rye, the song that will always remind me of Peeta, the song that made him fall in love with me. 

I sing on as Gale’s quiet steps enter the house and he makes his way in to us. Gale gasps as he enters the kitchen: I don’t know if it’s from seeing Barley's body or me on the floor singing to a very-much alive child. 

I stop singing as the two soldiers from 13 step into Peeta’s kitchen with us. 

“I found a survivor,” I growl at the two soldiers from 13, furious that they had not found Rye sooner. “I thought you said thirteen’s best did a sweep the village before letting me come here.” I glare at them.

“Catni…” Gale starts to try and calm me, only for the solder on the right to cut him off.

“Do you know the child, soldier Everdeen?” he asks almost coldly. 

“Yes,” I say as I stand, Buttercup hissing as my bag swings and hits my leg. Rye whimpers and fists my shirt with all the strength in his small hands. I pull him even closer to me so he knows I won’t let anyone take him from me and that he is safe. “His name is Rye Mellark.”

“Mellark?” the solder on the left asks me, his voice not holding the cold edge to it. 

“He is Peeta’s nephew. He is family,” I add just in case the soldier tries to say I can’t bring him. But they don’t and I feel bad for the hurt I see in Gale eyes as I claim Peeta’s family as my own. I hate myself for putting it there but I will not let anyone take Rye from me. 

The look of hurt drains out of Gale’s eyes as he discreetly assesses Rye’s health. He locks eyes with me and I know he’s saying ‘You’re calming him to protect him.’ 

“We need to get him to thirteen. Get him feed and to a doctor.” Gale says in a commending voice to the two solders. One of them adds how we need to go now because we are 48 minutes behind schedule. I have to keep from rolling my eyes at him. District 13 is all about their schedules. 

Gale leads Rye and me out of the house and through of ruins of District 12. I concentrate on the feel of Rye in my arms to keep from looking at the remains of the people who did not make it out alive, the people I killed with my impulsive act in the arena. At least I no longer have to put Rye on the list of people who are dead because of me.

When we get to the Meadow, Gale helps me get Rye and myself up the ladder and into the hovercraft. He takes my hunting bag and gives me a look when he hears Buttercup hissing form inside.

“So it was the cat you had to go back for.” Gale smirks at me, knowing full well I hate the cat, but also how much Prim loves him. 

“No, I must have known deep down I would find Rye if I went back and that he needed me.” Both Gale and I know I’m lying, but it seems to make Rye relax into my arms more, and he slowly falls asleep. 

No. the truth is, I came back because I had to see the remains of District 12 for myself. I had to see the dead. I just could not believe it was gone, that there was no more District 12. It’s not that I didn’t believe everyone, I knew they must be telling me the truth, but another part of me could not put to rest that 12 was gone with out seeing it myself. It’s a good thing the authorities in 13 give in and let me come to District 12. Rye would have died too, most likely of starvation. The thought brings tears rolling down my face. 

I close my eyes as my thoughts start to jumble together images of Rye lying dead next to his father in Peeta’s kitchen, the ash filled streets, the burnt-out houses of 12, Peeta jumping out of his sketchbook yelling at me about how I failed him and the people of 12. I have to block out my thoughts and try to remember again why I’m sitting in a hovercraft with Rye sleeping in my arms. I have to remind myself that my thoughts are jumbling because of the side effects of the medications the doctors are weaning me off of. So I use the technique one the doctors suggested. List off all the thing I know to be true, staring with the simplest and working up to the complicated. 

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen yours old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capital hates me. Peeta was taken prisoner. He is thought to be dead. I am living in District 13. Rye, Peeta’s nephew, has been fond alive and I will do everything in my power to keep him that way. 

OOO

Author’s Note: This is the first chapter to a story idea that I had that I don’t see myself continuing, so feel free to take the first chapter and whole story and make it your own. The underlying idea is ‘How would having a member of Peeta’s family alive and well effect the story of Mockingjay and Peeta’s recovery?’. All I ask is that if you use the first chapter, to note that it was written by me. Thanks for reading!


End file.
